


Squeaky Pig

by RhetoricFemme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 21:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13689963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: All Jean wanted was a gratuitous evening with his husband. What he got instead was a series of occupational hazards that accompany being dog owners.





	Squeaky Pig

**Author's Note:**

> This fun little story came about when my friend Watergirl1968 declared her exasperation over trying to write quality smut to the tune of an unappetizing dinner. It just wasn't working out.
> 
> I then informed her that I'd experienced similar mood killers by way of a particular dog toy. The Squeaky Pig.
> 
> Somehow we ended up with an incredibly fun writing prompt. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it! :)

Marco Bodt is nothing if not a man of discipline and long-term commitment. His solid ethic easily speaks for itself.

It’s apparent in the care and detail he puts into all aspects of the carpentry business he’s ran for the past ten years. The patience he gives his clients, from the meek and indecisive, all the way to the overly picky and contentious has earned Marco a reputation not only for reliable products, but as a trustworthy member of the community. The love and attention Marco devotes to his trade is impossible to miss, as it resides in both the craftsmanship and artistic subtlety that is a trademark of his carpentry.

For some folks—those that know him best—Marco’s commitment to long term projects is indisputable in that he’s spent the last two decades humoring the erratic schedule and moody whims that come with sharing a space with Jean Kirschstein.

To be fair, the erratic schedule comes with the territory when your husband is the head nurse in a high traffic ER. It’s not as if Marco isn’t a workaholic, himself, after all. Time can attest, however, that the moody whims are all Jean’s own. Outspoken and observant, Jean has long since learned that not everyone in a room is interested in whatever he has to say.

By and large, Marco adores it.

Now, he watches in amusement as Jean paces the length of their bedroom; tired, naked, and as irate as can be. Moonlight spills through sheer curtains, complementing the lithe stretch of Jean’s limbs. Marco has lost count of how many times those legs have wrapped immaculately around his waist, to the point that he assumes Jean’s body has built Marco’s torso into its muscle memory.

Jean continues to pace, epithets and carefully worded instructions falling from his lips. The situation is amusing enough that Marco can’t help but be distracted away from the fine curve of his husband’s ass in favor of the agitated expression souring his face.

It helps that Jean’s arms are fully extended in front of him, allowing him a better angle at which to stare down the obese corgi filling his hands. In the dog’s mouth is a green rubber pig.

It’s the dog toy of choice in the Bodt-Kirschstein househould; the sort whose squeak is much more of a honk than anything else. Obnoxious, yes, but far less terrible than any high-pitched squeal could ever be.

"I'm serious, Marco. He’s jealous of me." Jean shifts his weight, causing the dog to drop his favorite rubber pig onto the floor. The one that had so rudely interrupted them earlier. A struggle for small legs to be lowered to the ground ensues, and Jean obliges by gently setting the corgi on the carpet, grateful when he scurries out the door.

“Can’t imagine why.” Marco's arms are crossed behind his head, his abs flexing as he sits up with ease. He's all six-pack abs and that little roll of pudge that comes with being an overly busy man in his mid-30s. “It looks to me that the dog is the one stealing all of _your_ attention from _me_.”

Jean stares back, giving his husband a onceover, therein retraining his attention on more important tasks at hand. Jean knows what that core body is capable of. Remembers what his plans had been at the start of this whole thing.

"Fuck Gobie." Jean dismisses all of his ire in exchange of kneeling at the foot of their bed, heat roiling in his gut as Marco slinks nearer.

“You’re supposed to fuck _me._ ”

Ah, yes. His first intentions for their evening had involved spoiling Marco rotten. Carefully laid hands, attentive lips, and ghosted breaths across sensitive vertebrae until Marco had had enough. There’s something to be said for nearly edging out the man you trust and love most in this world, only to hand yourself over to him immediately after.

“Then c’mere.” Jean drawls seductively, pressing his hands into the small of Marco’s back, kissing the inside of one deliciously muscled thigh.

Marco moves his hips forward, and _finally_ Jean takes the whole of Marco’s dick into his mouth. He savors being surrounded by his husband’s clean, heady musk on all sides. Jean’s eyes slip closed when Marco’s hands tangle in his hair, pulling reverently each time Jean manages to swallow all of him down.

“Je—Jean…” Marco inhales until his lungs are full, lets go around a shaken, euphoric breath when Jean starts to use his tongue in that one well-practiced way. The one that causes Marco’s dick to twitch every single time.

“Keep going baby… _Keep_ … keep going. Je—Jeashh _iit_ fuck!”

Marco instinctively jolts backward at the same moment Jean manages to bite his own tongue. It’s one of those occasions where your entire life flashes before your eyes. That moment subconscious preservation takes control of your spouse mere seconds before that cold, canine nose presses against his ass, consequently causing him to almost bite into your lust-hardened dick.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry!” Jean stands quickly, one hand cupping his jaw, while the other grips protectively at Marco’s knee. Neither of them seem to care about the fact that blood is dribbling down Jean’s chin. “Shit, Marco. Are you okay?’

Marco lets out a short, incredulous laugh, his eyes watery and bright when he shakes his head. He sits up all the way then, moving to better inspect the small trickle of blood cascading across Jean’s knuckles and chin. The only sound more prevalent than Marco’s rasping breath is the obnoxious squeak of rubber pig at the bottom of the stairs.

 

* * *

 

When they’d gotten married in their mid-twenties, neither Marco nor Jean had any reason to doubt that life would end up being anything other than great in their thirties. Careers situated and a house all their own, it seemed like an ideal stop along their lifelong trajectory.

And at the end of the day, it really is.

If only someone had told them that more often than not, utter exhaustion would also be waiting for each of them at the end of those days.

Some weeks, it becomes a challenge just to see one another. Between hospital rotations and on-call shifts; after the demands of too-elaborate custom furniture orders, it’s enough simply to fall into the same bed as one another.

Jean now equates the sharp scent of cedar to passionate, impromptu lovemaking. His abated knees are an easy sacrifice to Marco’s cold, concrete workshop floors.

It’s a quiet afternoon when Jean finds himself walking the perimeter of their backyard, keeping an easy conversation with the dog he so often claims to hate.

“I get it, dude. I do.” Gobie sniffs at the spot in the fence where Jean has just kicked his sneakered foot, doing his part in searching out places still needing to be strengthened. “You’ve got needs, too. That does not mean you and your pig get to interfere with my love life.”

Jean had been the first one to latch onto Gobie. Finding him wide-eyed and apathetic to the passersby at the shelter, there was no way Jean was going to be able to pass him by. His heart had gone out to the small dog with the sardonic eyes.

“Look at this little shit.” Jean had pulled on Marco’s sleeve before he could walk by. “Thinks he’s too good for everybody here.”

Marco had pulled his arm around Jean’s waist, rubbing affectionately at his side.

“Gobie, is it?” Marco read the card in front of the cold, impersonal cage. “Five years old, loves cat food but not cats. Prefers company of adults to children, and would do best in a single pet home.”

“ _Gobie_.” Jean grinned when the dog acknowledged his name, though on the whole he still seemed unimpressed.

Marco watched his husband, watching the dog. “Let’s see if we can take him home.”

As it turned out, Gobie was smart. Too smart, if you asked Jean, who often found himself locked in staredowns that resulted in a slur of expletives and a repossessed pig.

Jean was a sucker, though, and the Corgi knew it. He never whined at the loss of his favorite toy, as all he had to do was wait. Eventually his favorite human always came looking for him, and behind his back he’d be holding onto the squeaky pig.

Jean and Gobie continued to walk the perimeter of the yard together. Partially overcast, and sweatshirt weather, Jean inhaled happily to the scent of impending rain.

“You know Gobes,” Jean said flatly. “You could go running with me if you weren't such a lazy sack of shit.”

A happy tongue lolled out of the dog’s mouth, and Jean couldn’t help but kneel in the grass to love on him. Several minutes passed, wherein ears were scratched and hearts were soothed. An incoming text from Marco was the only thing good enough to pull Jean away.

**Marc: Not on call r u? If not take a shower and meet me for dinner at 6.**

With this, Jean’s interests were piqued. He responded quickly, receiving another text just as promptly.

**Marc: Awesome. Wear nice clothes.**

Jean barely had a moment to overthink things before the back of his leg was nudged by a cold, wet nose. Gobie looked up at him curiously.

“What is your dad up to?” Jean asked sweetly. His answer was a classic, lazy dog smile, which Jean rewarded by tossing the squeaky pig across the yard.


End file.
